since he’d left university, he’d enjoyed considerable female company, company he’d turned into girlfriends and mistresses.
Mikael enjoyed women. He was quite comfortable with girlfriends and mistresses. But he was not at all open to taking a wife, despite the fact that as king it was his duty to marry and produce heirs.
Something he was sure Sheikh Azizzi knew. But Sheikh Azizzi, like much of Saidia, was eager for the country’s king to marry as quickly as possible.
Sheikh Azizzi also knew that nothing would pain the Copeland family more than having the youngest daughter forced into a marriage against her will.
It was fitting punishment for a family that believed itself to be above the law.
But in truth Mikael didn’t want a wife. He didn’t want children. He didn’t want entanglements of any kind. It’s why he kept mistresses. He provided for them materially and in return they’d always be available to him, without making any demands. Mikael was torn between his duty and his desires.
He studied Jemma now, trying to imagine her as his wife.
Without her make-up he could see purple smudges beneath her eyes and her naturally long black eye lashes. She had a heart-shaped face. Clear green eyes. Full pink lips.
The same pink as her nipples.
His body hardened, remembering her earlier, modeling, and naked beneath the fur coat.
She had an incredible body.
He would enjoy her body. But he’d never like her. Never admire her. She wasn’t a woman he wanted for anything beyond sex and pleasure.
He pictured her naked again. He’d certainly find pleasure in her curves and breasts and that private place between her legs.
“So it’s house arrest,” Jemma said. “Seven years. Would the sentence start tonight? Tomorrow?”
“I haven’t made up my mind,” he answered.
Her green eyes widened. Her lips parted and for a moment no sound came out and then she shook her head, a frantic shake that left no doubt as to her feelings. “I will not marry you. I will not!”
“It’s not up to you. It’s my choice.”
“You can’t force me.”
“I can.” And silently he added, I could.
Just like that, the idea took root.
He could marry her. He could force her to his will. He could avenge his mother’s shame. He could exact revenge.
For a moment there was just silence. It was thick and heavy and he imagined she must hate it. She must find the silence stifling because she was completely powerless. She had no say. He would decide her fate. She would have to accept whatever he chose for her.
He found the thought pleasing.
He liked knowing that whatever he chose, she would have to submit.
She with the lovely eyes and soft lips and full, pink tipped breasts.
“But you do not wish to marry me,” she whispered. “You hate me. You wouldn’t be able to look at me or touch me.”
“I could touch you,” he corrected. “And I could look at you. But I wouldn’t love you, no.”
“Don’t do that to me. Don’t use me.”
“Why not? Your father used my mother to bring shame on my family name.”
“I’m not my father and you’re not your mother and we both deserve better. We both deserve good marriages, proper marriages, marriages based on love and respect.”
“That sounds quite nice except for the fact that I don’t love. I won’t take a wife out of love. I will take her out of duty. I will marry as it is my responsibility. A king must have heirs.”
“But I want love. And by forcing me to marry you, you deprive me of love.”
“Your father deprived my mother of life. I’m Arabic. A life for a life. A woman for a woman. He took her. I should take you.”
“No.”
“Saidia requires a prince. You’d give me beautiful children.”
“I’d never be willing in bed, and you said even in a forced marriage, the sex is consensual.”
“You’d consent.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“You’d beg me to take you.”
“Never.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “You’re wrong. And I will prove you wrong, and when I do, what shall you give me in return?”
Jemma rose from the table, and went to the doorway. “I want to go. I want to go now.”
“I don’t think that’s one of my options.”
* * *
Jemma didn’t know where to look. Her heart raced and her eyes burned and she felt so sick inside.
This wasn’t what she’d thought would happen. This wasn’t how she’d imagined this would go. Jail was bad. Seven years under house arrest boggled the mind. But marriage?
The idea of Sheikh Karim forcing her to marry him made everything inside her shrink, collapse.
She’d thought the last year had been horrific, being shunned as Daniel Copeland’s daughter, but to be married against her will?
Her eyes stung, growing hotter and grittier. She pressed her nails into her palms, determined not to cry, even as she wondered how far she’d get if she bolted from the house and ran.
Marrying Mikael Karim would break her. It would. She’d been so lonely this past year, so deeply hurt by Damien’s rejection and the constant shaming by the media, as well as endless public hatred. She couldn’t face a cold marriage. She needed to live, to move, to breathe, to feel, to love...
To love.
It was tragic but she needed love. Needed to love and be loved. Needed connection and contact and warmth.
“Please,” she choked, the tears she didn’t want filling her eyes, “please don’t marry me. Please just leave me here in Haslam. I don’t want to spend seven years here, but at least in seven years I could be free and go home and marry and have children with someone who wants me, and needs me, and loves me—” She broke off as Sheikh Azizzi entered the room behind her.
The village elder was accompanied by two robed men.
Jemma pressed her hands together in prayer, pleading with Mikael. “Let me stay here. Please. Please.”
“And
